


Corona

by Aurumite



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Comfort, Dissociation, Domestic, Multi, injuries, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:48:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12012093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurumite/pseuds/Aurumite
Summary: Jugdral drabbles/ficlets requested on my tumblr.#5: Deirdre, Sigurd, and new baby Seliph.





	1. By My Side [Seliph/Ares]

**Author's Note:**

> I got three separate requests for Seliph/Ares but couldn't settle on an idea until Ao3 user Seliph wouldn't stop talking about face kisses.

Ares is sitting up in his cot by the time Seliph has finished his after-meetings with Lewyn and Shanan. Nanna sits on a wooden stool and tends to a cut on his cheek with a needle and thread while he looks up at the tent’s canvas ceiling like enduring it is nothing but a chore. She is doting more than anything else, Seliph supposes. In the face of all the other wounds Ares had sustained, so many that he hadn’t had the breath to protest when Leif dragged him off the field, the sluggishly-bleeding line on his face, though deep, had been inconsequential. **  
**

He musters the stomach to look lower. Bandages cover Ares’s right arm and chest and stomach so thickly that hardly any skin is showing. Seliph’s cheeks heat regardless. It’s mostly anger, he reasons to himself. He has every right to be angry.

Nanna ties her last stitch and nods at Seliph when she notices him approaching. She goes quietly to another patient’s bed and Ares glares at her back when he realizes she’s left him to his fate. The full force of that glare, the Black Knight’s silent and infamous wrath, hits Seliph next, but he purses his lips and busies himself with removing his gloves, making a show of being unfazed.

“I suppose you know why I’m here,” he says.

“I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“You were too reckless, Ares.”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“I can’t keep putting you in the ranks if all you do is break them.”

“So I was supposed to just leave your right flank open. Just let someone pincer in and slay the only hope we have.”

Seliph doesn’t retort, though he’d had no intention of giving over the argument when he is in the right. It’s just that Ares speaks so rarely of hope.

He sits on the stool at his bedside and takes his chin to study Nanna’s handiwork. The stitches are clean and tidy, though the black thread against Ares’s pale skin seems instinctively wrong, somehow; makes Seliph’s gut twist like he’d eaten something too raw. Though Ares doesn’t pull away, he still finds a way to look at Seliph like his chin is jutted high and Seliph is at the end of his long Nordion nose.

“We’ve been over this,” Ares says.

“Yes, we have. And I said I didn’t, under any circumstance, want you behaving this way.”

“And it’s still irrelevant. Every foe I kill, every blow I take, is one less for you.”

Seliph sighs. The main problem with being with Ares, he’s found, is that they’re equally stubborn. They agree on most everything, but when they don’t, the impasse seems insurmountable. He glides his thumb gingerly over the cut, which almost parallels his sharp cheekbone.

“This could’ve been your eye,” he says. “Could you fight as fiercely with just one eye?”

“After some practice. Besides, it would make me look fearsome – rugged. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“No. I like your eyes.”

They’re the only telling part of him. They smile when his lips don’t, mourn when his voice is steady, fill with love when his tongue won’t shape the word. It has never been so hard for Seliph to speak or to show. If anyone can lose an eye, it can be him. He leans forward and kisses the lid of Ares’s, and then the skin just beneath it, and then each of his stitches, as gently as he can. Ares huffs: a small laugh.  

“This is hardly an admonishment.”

“I was never here to punish you. I’m here because you worried me so much.”

The ever-present confidence fades from Ares’s eyes. Seliph can see from their sudden emptiness, from the slight furrowing of his brow, that he’s confused. It’s not the first time Seliph has suspected that Ares is new to love without punishment, that he is unaccustomed to a touch not given out of possessiveness or anger. The thought makes Seliph press another kiss to his temple.

“I just want to talk you out of any future sallies,” he explains. “If I were to lose you…”

“That’s exactly the thought that led me here in the first place,” Ares argues, but the heat drops from his voice and he lowers his eyes. He mutters, “But I’ll consider being more careful. At your side, maybe, rather than dashing ahead.”

“At my side,” Seliph echoes. He reaches for Ares’s hand and squeezes, and though Ares’s eyebrows slope up even further, he squeezes back so hard it almost hurts. “I like the sound of that.” 


	2. Your Fault [Seliph/Ares, NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seliph/Ares kink fill. [NSFW WARNING FOR THIS ONE CHAPTER]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS NSFW.
> 
> For a super, super old kink meme prompt: “Aless/Celice - Celice seduced Aless without knowing it. They have loving sex and during it Aless list off how Celice seduced him.”

“This is your fault,” Ares growls.

Granted, he’d been the one to seize Seliph into a kiss after the last battle, blood still singing; and he is the one pumping their cocks with his bigger hand; and he is the one on top in Seliph’s cot, now that they’ve stumbled that far, grinding his hips down while Seliph lies panting and limp. Seliph’s strong enough to push Ares off him (even push him  _beneath_  him); he’s bold enough to say no. But he lets himself be ravished, lets a pleased hum escape him as Ares latches to his tanned neck and tried to make a mark.

“Oh,” Ares groans as fingers tangle in his hair, “ _Seliph_ , this is all your fault.”

He can feel the light laugh flutter through Seliph’s chest: he’d been too impatient to undress them both, and the stripes of skin that meet burn all the hotter for it.

“How is it  _my_  fault?” Seliph asks, and Ares pulls back, incredulous. Just look at the bastard, dazzled blue eyes and swollen lips, hair loose and fanned out over the pillow.

“You seduced me,” he says, indignant, and when Seliph laughs again he covers it with his mouth.

“I had no idea,” Seliph murmurs, still smiling, as Ares begins to work his way back down his jaw and neck. His hips roll up to match the pace Ares set and make Ares shudder. “I didn’t mean to.”

“So you just locked eyes with me for no reason when you rallied us this morning. You just smouldered like that for  _no reason_.”

“I-I’ve never smouldered a day in my life!”

It’s fun to fluster him, Ares decides, and more fun to kiss his hot cheek when he blushes.

“You absolutely did. And don’t tell me you don’t take your hair down like that on accident when we bathe,”—It’s getting hard to talk now, as the contact between their hips is far more important, but he does his damnedest—“shake it out like you do, make me spend the whole time trying not to stare at how it sticks to you—”

“Ares,” he gasps, “I would never—”

“And saying my name like that! The way you always say it, like I'm—special, like I’m  _king_ —”

“You are a king,” Seliph protests, but Ares shakes his head. Not yet, he isn’t. Right now Seliph is their ruler and commander, their  _god_ , and Ares is going to bend the knee and give him everything he wants.

Seliph gasps his name again, arching, and Ares redoubles his efforts, curling himself to kiss down Seliph’s chest. He’s too close to manage any more than grunting, now, but Seliph is a desperate stream of breathless compliments until he grips Ares’s shoulders and climaxes all over the both of them. Ares follows quickly, throwing his head back but keeping his cry behind his clenched teeth, and falls beside him. The cot is hardly large enough for one person and their combined weight presses them together, smearing come over their bare chests and lapels. (Not exactly as subtle a coupling as he would’ve hoped.)

“Your fault,” he rasps again.

Seliph sounds entirely too pleased with himself when he murmurs, “Then I accept full responsibility.”


	3. Reality [Azelle/Edain]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #3: Azelle/Edain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Rarepairweek; prompt was "a non-predestined FE4 pairing."

Once, shortly before he set out with Lex to meet Sigurd, Azelle dreamt about Edain.

He can’t remember much of it, beyond that it was bright as noon in his bedroom though his dream-self knew it to be midnight, and that she came through the door without opening it to kiss him and press her body close, and that he’d woken overheated and very embarrassed. She slips through the entrance to his tent now, pushing aside the fabric’s weight with her not-at-all-ethereal form, and Azelle thinks that if he could go back and tell his younger self anything, it would be what a fool he was.

He’s loved Edain from the moment he first laid eyes on her, across the king’s court when he accompanied Arvis to the capital years ago. She was there to see the sights too, while her lord father conducted business. Her slim white neck was circled with gold jewellery and her hair shone in the sunlight from the windows, and she had the sweetest smile Azelle had ever seen: not just lovely, but sincere and kind.

She doesn’t look the part of a duchess now. Her eyes never lost the hollowness they took on after Deirdre was stolen away, though the year in Silesia brought roses back to her cheeks. The march back into Grannvale has been gruelling and she has many injured to tend to. Her dress is stained with old blood and vomit and any jewellery she brought with her had been pawned off to help fund the army long ago. Her hands smell like lye and her hair smells like sweat and is always tangled.

But this is reality.

It’s painful to watch her work so hard, but Edain is needed. All Azelle can do is support her as best he can, so he rises from his cot where he’s been flicking through a tome and wraps her in his arms. She’s solid and warm, her muscles are tense, her bones are hard. He wishes none of them ever had to know war, but if there’s one thing it’s given him, it’s the true Edain. He sees the strength in her delicate hands and the steely bent of her sweetness: uncompromising, unyielding, not a lily or a white rose but bright and hardy as a dandelion.

“I’m so tired,” she sighs against his shoulder. For some months now he’s been taller than her, though he can’t remember exactly when that came to pass.

“Rest, now,” he murmurs back. “You’ve worked so hard today. You’ve helped so many.”

She leans up and kisses him, and it’s not at all like his boyhood dreaming. She has a feel, a weight, a taste. Even if life with her isn’t what he’d expected, what he has now is the truth, and Azelle seizes it before it can dissipate like fog above earth, like steam above water, like smoke above fire. 


	4. Warmth [Seliph/Ares]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Seliph/Ares fluff. Just a drabble.

The rain helps remind Seliph that he’s alive. 

Sometimes, when the battles are especially gruesome, his fingers go numb afterward and it’s hard to concentrate. He doesn’t bother telling Oifey and Shannan because they have enough to think about. Lewyn might call him weak, if he knew.

The icy rain on the border of Grannvale stings his skin and forces him to feel again. He takes lungfuls of the sharp air and ignores the dripping from his soaked hair: that discomfort, too, is something he needs. He looks out over the fields and farmland, grey and gloomy now beneath the dark sky. 

Soon this will be over, for better or for worse. 

The harsh pattering against his pauldrons goes quiet and the drumming against his head stops. A sudden warmth envelops him. Still sluggish, he glances over to find Ares has come to his side, cloak stretched over him like a large black wing. He can’t read his expression: his hood is up, and only the tip of his straight nose peeks past the fabric. 

But he doesn’t ask what Seliph is doing out here, doesn’t chide him for being wet, doesn’t ask him to move to a tent. He doesn’t speak at all. He simply watches the horizon with him. Seliph leans against his side. 

Warmth is grounding, too.


	5. Dreams Come True [Deirdre, Sigurd, Seliph]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a request for some family fluff about these three.

Sigurd isn’t allowed into the room for a long while. Ethlyn has to teach Deirdre how to nurse, first, and it’s not as simple and natural as she’d always assumed. Seliph takes a while to learn, as Deirdre does, but they manage in the end. Ethlyn rests her head on Deirdre’s shoulder and strokes her new nephew’s downy, dark hair until he’s finished. 

“I’ll get Sigurd,” she says then, slipping off the bed. “Seliph will probably fall asleep any moment, now.” 

But he doesn’t. He stays nestled in Deirdre’s arms like he’s a missing piece of her now rejoined, and a bubble of milk forms on his tiny lips that she wipes away with a fingertip, and he looks up at her with wide blue eyes. 

“Hello,” she whispers to him, as if he can understand. “You beautiful boy.” 

Free of her dark blood, free of the forest – he will have everything she never could; everything Sigurd has now blessed her with. Her husband enters and closes the bedchamber door with unusual calm and quiet. For a long moment he only looks at them, and Deirdre beams back. 

“How are you?” he finally murmurs as he comes to join her. He tugs off his boots and slides under the blankets with her, settling an arm around her shoulders. 

“Never better,” she answers. Exhausted and too-pale, missing a deal of blood, still in a lot of pain, but never better. Sigurd brushes a tendril of hair from her forehead. Only then does she realize what a mess she must be – disheveled and with dark circles, covered in old, dried sweat – but she hasn’t thought to feel self-conscious. The way Sigurd is looking at her reaffirms it. He presses a kiss to her temple. 

“And how is he?” 

His voice is soft, almost reverent. Deirdre’s tone matches as she answers, 

“He is perfect.” 

Perfect little nose, little cheeks, little toes. Sigurd reaches for his hand and Seliph grasps with all his might. Seliph stares at their faces like they’re all that exists in the world – and right now, Deirdre realizes, just for right now, that’s the truth. 

The room is so open, so full of light from the broad windows. Even without her circlet, she thinks she could lean out the sill and cry her joy over the treetops and the flocks of birds; high and loud enough for the whole world to hear. Everyone should know: Things get better. Dreams come true. No one is ever truly alone.

“Are you tired?” Sigurd asks, and through her elation Deirdre realizes that she is: a low and constant ache, in time with the lazy floating of dust motes in the sunbeams. His lips press to her face again; his deep voice whispers in her ear, 

“Sleep, my love. I have you both.” 

So Deirdre drowses on his shoulder, faintly aware of Seliph in the crook of her arm, the fluttering of his eyelashes as he finally does the same.


End file.
